


Someday Soon You'll Haunt Me

by sunken_ship14



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Angst, Implied/Referenced Underage, M/M, Scars, Steter Week, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-07-28 08:58:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7634035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_ship14/pseuds/sunken_ship14
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Everyone is haunted. Everyone you know is a ghost waiting to happen.</i>
</p>
<p>Infertility plagues the world, and while new life has ceased, the dead have begun to return as ghosts. They only appear before the one closest to them in life.</p>
<p>Peter Hale is trailed by the spirits of his family. He’s quite happy to follow the convention of limiting human interaction to avoid gaining more unwanted company. Then he meets Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lonely boy, wander into my town

**Author's Note:**

> Among many choices that make this fic an AU, you should know that everyone except for Peter died in the fire, Chris quit hunting before Allison was born, and Scott was never bitten. Hopefully the rest will make sense as the story unfolds. 
> 
> Major Character Deaths occur before the story starts. This fic involves ghosts, so many characters are dead but still around in varying capacities.

There’s a boy standing on the street corner, haloed by the glow of the streetlamp. His hands are shoved into the front pocket of his red hoodie, shoulders hunched from the cold. There’s a ratty grey backpack hanging off one of his shoulders. His eyes are trained on the sidewalk, studiously avoiding eye contact the way that everyone does these days. Peter should not be looking at him.

“So are you going to say hello?” chirps a voice from right behind him.

Peter turns around slowly, long used to the comings and goings of his personal ghosts.

“Laura,” he greets, because of course it’s Laura. In death, as in life, she noses her way into every aspect of your life with an irritating sense of entitlement. She’s just like Talia, really, but Laura died too young to learn how to leave things be.

“He’s cute,” says Laura. There’s mischief in her eyes, and Peter could almost be grateful that she’s only a ghost. He’s the only one who can see or hear her. It’s the same with the rest of his family. He can never be grateful for it.

“He’s young,” Peter counters. “He must have been a baby when all of this started.”

“Well, he isn’t a baby anymore,” says Laura. “And anyway, he can’t be younger than 25 or he’d be a walking miracle.”

“I can hear you, you know,” says the boy.

For a moment, Peter imagines the boy is addressing Laura, but when he turns to face him, those amber eyes are set on Peter. Laura is right, the boy can’t be any younger than 25. It’s simple math, really. As far as the world’s governments can tell, the last human life to be born was a girl in the south of France just about 25 years ago. According to reports from around the world, any birth after the cut-off has been stillborn. It’s believed that the ghosts – the real ones – began to appear shortly afterward.

“Say something. Tell him you think he’s cute,” Laura prompts.

The boy is smiling at him, as if he’s amused by Peter’s speechlessness. In spite of the worn state of his clothing, he does smell clean. Beneath the unpleasantness of cheap soap and shampoo, Peter can detect something oddly earthy that has his wolf stirring in interest.

“It’s common courtesy not to interrupt someone conversing with their ghosts,” Peter chides.

“Oh, please. You love it when I get interrupted,” scoffs Laura.

“Well, where I come from, it’s also common courtesy not to stare,” the boy counters. “I mean, what if we start connecting?” He wiggles his fingers in a gesture meant to represent some future connection between them, and Peter can’t help but take note of those ridiculous, obscene fingers.

Laura is laughing at him, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“New to town, are you?”

“Just passing through. Know any hotels nearby?” The boy shifts the backpack to his other shoulder. He’s shivering a little bit. The smile has dropped off his face, and Peter can see the bags under his eyes.

“None that you could afford,” says Peter, because he’s an asshole, and over 20 years of talking to no one but his dead family has done nothing to improve his social skills. 

“Really, Uncle Peter?” Laura sighs.

Peter can smell the hurt settle over the boy, but his eyes continue to stare boldly into Peter’s. It’s odd behaviour for one of the Pampered. He should not be speaking with Peter. The boy should be well indoctrinated with the belief that connecting with other people will only lead to the burden of more ghosts. Yet here he is, holding a conversation with a complete stranger. Peter is undeniably intrigued.

“Whatever,” says the boy. Peter can read in his expression that he’s done with this conversation, but the wolf in him isn’t ready to let this one slip away.

“You can stay with me, if you like. I live a few blocks from here. It’s certainly warmer than out here.” The boy looks unconvinced. “Free-of-charge, I promise.”

“Do you even realize how creepy you sound right now, Uncle Peter? He probably thinks you’re going to murder him. Stop smiling like a serial killer, and say something before he runs away. Look at him. He’ll catch pneumonia and die if you don’t do something.”

Peter resists the urge to roll his eyes. He’s searching for something reassuring to say when the boy surprises him.

“Okay,” he says. His eyes stare determinedly into Peter’s own.

“Follow me,” says Peter, swallowing his disbelief.

“Wow, he really does need looking after,” says Laura. “Good thing we found him before someone else happened along.”

“Anyone else would have ignored him,” Peter whispers, at a volume he knows only Laura’s werewolf ears will hear.

“You’ll thank me someday soon,” says Laura, and then she disappears.

*

Peter’s house is a red brick bungalow, with plenty of space on either side before the neighbours’ property lines, and a forest at its back. It’s perfect in a society that values isolation, and more perfect for a werewolf without a pack.

The boy lets out a pleased sigh when they step into the warmth of the entry hall, kicking off his sneakers and letting his backpack fall to the floor with a thump. He reddens when he sees Peter’s raised eyebrow, and hoists his bag back onto his shoulder.

“Uh, sorry.”

“No, no, make yourself at home.”

“Right. Where should I…?”

“Kitchen’s on your left, living room to your right. There’s only one bedroom, so I’ll make up the couch for you, but the guest bathroom down the hall is all yours.”

“Thanks,” the boy says. His tongue darts out to lick his chapped lips, his fingers twitching with nervous energy.

“Who’s this?” asks Talia. She’s standing in the hall in the front of them, arms folded against her chest. She looks Peter’s guest up and down, lip curling. “He’s a little young, isn’t he?”

Peter walks straight through her. He doesn’t need to answer to Talia. Actually, he can’t answer Talia.

“I suppose if you’re going to be staying here, I’ll need something to call you,” he says, turning around abruptly.

“Of course you don’t know his name,” Talia sneers.

“Stiles,” the boy says, then hurriedly adds, “It’s a nickname.”

“Stiles,” Peter repeats, testing the name on his tongue. It sounds fake, but the boy’s heartbeat remains steady. Peter’s wolf is yipping happily inside of him, now that Stiles is in his den. “I’m Peter. Peter Hale.”

There was a time when the name Hale meant something to supernatural creatures across the country. Fear. Respect. Awe. It’s been a long time since anyone has sought the advice or protection of a Hale alpha, however, and Stiles smells completely human.

“Thank you for helping me, Peter,” he replies neutrally.

“You can make yourself comfortable in the living room. I’ll be right back.”

Talia dogs his steps as he heads to his room to grab some clean sheets and a pillow. He can hear Stiles’ hesitant footsteps as he edges into the living room, the sound of his bag falling onto the coffee table. He listens as the boy walks up to the bookshelf and trails his fingers across the spines.

“You’re really making up the couch for him?” Talia asks, with less venom than before. “Since when do you take in strays?”

“Aren’t you proud of me, sister? You’re always going on about how selfish I am.”

“It isn’t good for you to be alone, Peter.” Her tone is irritatingly forceful. Peter studiously opens his closet and pulls out a set of clean sheets. “Your little flings from the bar don’t count. You need real bonds. Pack. You’ll go mad otherwise!”

“Am I not mad already? I seem to be seeing ghosts.”

Talia’s eyes flash red, and Peter’s flash back at her. She opens her mouth, but instead of saying anything else, she disappears. Peter rolls his eyes, grabs a pillow from his bed and makes his way back into the living room.

“Books are for reading, not just looking at,” says Peter, then he tilts his head in consideration. “You are literate, aren’t you?”

“Oh, come on,” Stiles exclaims. “There’s no way I look that pathetic. Yes, I can read. I wasn’t raised by wolves.”

“Shame,” says Peter flippantly and, because he wants to see how Stiles will react, adds, “I was.”

“Yeah, I can totally tell. Your manners are impeccable.”

Peter tosses the beddings at him. Stiles flails, manages to catch the pillow, but drops it when he makes a grab for the sheets. Peter grins, and Stiles holds both sheets and pillow close to his chest defensively.

“Well, if your expectations are already low,” Peter drawls. He had fully intended to make up the couch for Stiles, but if he lets the boy do it himself, the movement will have his scent permeate the room more deeply than if he’d just lain down to sleep. The sheets are new, but the pillow smells strongly of Peter, and his wolf is rumbling in contentment as their scents mingle. “Goodnight, Stiles.”

“Goodnight, Peter.”

Peter heads into his own room, listening as Stiles sets up the couch, sits, jumps back up, and starts to pace.

“Am I crazy for staying here?” he asks, likely addressing one of his ghosts. “No, Scott, I’m not asking you. You want to trust everyone. Thoughts, guys?”

Multiple ghosts then. Perhaps his parents are among them. It would certainly explain why one of the Pampered is alone and in need. They must have died recently though, or he’d have been adopted by some rich couple seeking a child after the cut-off.

Stiles is silent, likely listening to his ghosts’ counsel. Then he sighs.

“Yeah, I thought so too,” he says, and Peter hears the thump as he flops onto the couch. “Nice to have a bed again. Well, sort of a bed.” Stiles yawns. “I think we’re getting close now. Maybe this is the town where we finally… Yeah, in the morning. Goodnight Mom, Dad. Scott. Allison. Melissa. Love you guys.”

Both parents, then, and three others. Peter sighs. 

Five ghosts at 25. Presumably 25. Peter will have to ask Stiles how old he is in the morning, and what he’s doing in town. He needs to figure out how he can get him to stay.

*

Peter wakes to the sound of sniffling.

Cora sits at the foot of his bed, knees drawn up beneath her chin, sad eyes gazing at her uncle. It’s to be one of those nights, then.

“Cora,” he murmurs softly.

“Uncle Peter, I wanna go home,” she whines.

“I know, sweet. I know.” It’s what he always says, now. He’s tried explaining it to her, that their home was lost to a fire, but she never remembers the fire. She never seems to realize that she isn’t alive.

“Wanna go home,” she insists. He shuffles down the bed to sit beside her, but makes no move to touch her. His hand will only pass right through her and she’ll be more upset.

“How about I tell you a story instead. Hm?”

Cora shakes her head. “Wanna go home.” She holds her arms outstretched expectantly, and it’s a sight that haunts Peter, waking and dreaming. Cora holding her arms out to him, waiting for him to save her from the smoke and the heat. 

When he makes no move to hold her, the tears begin in earnest, and then she is sobbing, arms wrapped around her legs and rocking back and forth.

“Wanna go home!” she wails.

It’s a long night.

*

Peter has four ghosts: Laura, Talia, Cora, and Derek. His sister and her brood.

The ghosts of Peter’s parents have never deigned to appear to him. Peter is unsurprised by this. They had always lavished the majority of their attentions on Talia, the future alpha. When they died while Peter was away at college, he’d felt the brutal tearing of the pack bonds, and then an odd sense of relief.

The only real curiosity is that his brother-in-law Michael is not one of his ghosts. Sometimes, Talia will appear to stare wordlessly at Peter. It is unnerving, and her stare seems accusing. She always felt that Peter’s feelings for Michael were lukewarm at best. She used to send them out on pack business together, trying to get them to bond. Michael was an easy man to like, a quiet and steady presence beside Talia’s storm. Peter had tried, and the pack bond was there, but it was never quite as strong as the others.

Peter finds himself missing the man. He was a peacekeeper in the family. Now, Peter feels haunted by ghosts who cannot be consoled or appeased.

*

The next morning, Peter finds Stiles at the kitchen table, hunched over a cup of coffee. He greets Peter with a moan, and an odd flailing motion before slumping over his coffee once more. He tilts his head to one side, and then straightens up, perhaps based on a scolding from his mother.

“Morning. I, uh, helped myself to your coffee. Hope you don’t mind.”

Peter’s wolf is torn between pleasure and distress. Stiles has taken a shower, and Peter stocks the guest bathroom with the same toiletries as his own, so the boy smells more like Peter than he did before. Stiles is helping himself to Peter’s food – or coffee at least. These are all good signs, showing that Stiles is settling well into Peter’s den. But Stiles also looks exhausted, and the bags under his eyes weren’t quite so deep the night before.

“Was the sofa that uncomfortable?”

“No,” Stiles denies. “It was fine, super, fantastic! I just, you know.” His head whips around to stare behind him, and Peter is sure that the boy’s ghosts have said something. Stiles meets Peter’s gaze before continuing. “Couldn’t sleep. Couch – couch was good, great-”

“Drink your coffee.” Peter can’t help but be amused. How has the boy survived alone for so long? How long has he been alone?

"So, what brings you to town?"

Stiles looks from side to side, and Peter wonders what his ghosts are telling him.

"I'm looking for my friend's father," Stiles says at last. "We were travelling together, but we got separated. I heard he might be here."

"And your friend? Why isn’t he helping you?"

Stiles turns to stare at the empty space beside him. He meets Peter's gaze with a rueful smile. "Oh, she is. You just can’t see her."

She. Her. Either Allison or Melissa then.

“Uncle Peter, I want eggs for breakfast.”

Cora is sitting at the table in the chair across from Stiles, little legs swinging back and forth in impatience. There are exactly two chairs in the kitchen, because Peter’s ghosts only ever visit one at a time, and they kick up a fuss if they have nowhere to sit.

Peter nods, in acknowledgment of both Cora and Stiles.

“How do you like your eggs?” he asks Stiles.

“Poached!” Cora crows. It’s a taste she picked up shortly before the fire, something that made her feel more elegant and grown up.

“Scrambled, but you don’t have to. I should really get going.” Stiles is at the edge of his seat, one hand curled around the handle of his backpack.

“Sit,” Peter says, as he starts on the eggs. “You’re too skinny as it is.”

“I’m not starving,” says Stiles with a scowl. “I do have some money.”

“Who’s this?” asks Cora, as if she’s only just noticed Peter’s houseguest. 

“Stiles.” It’s both an answer for Cora and an unimpressed response for Stiles.

“Okay,” they say in unison. Cora stares curiously at Stiles, nose scrunching up. Stiles is fidgeting in his seat. Peter can’t figure out why, after accepting to stay the night and helping himself to Peter’s coffee, scrambled eggs are what make Stiles feel uncomfortable.

“Is he pack?” Cora whispers, as if Stiles might hear her.

“Do you want me to answer your questions, or do you want me to make your eggs?” Peter whispers back.

“Eggs, please.” She turns away from Stiles to watch Peter at the stove. Stiles begins to chat with his ghosts, debating the merits of scrambled versus sunny side-up. This leads into a discussion of free-range chickens, then veganism, then baby animals.

“Yes, Scott, piglets are cute, but bacon is delicious. And no, they are not cuter than puppies,” Stiles is saying, as Peter dishes up Cora’s eggs. He has a feeling that if he doesn’t serve her first, she’ll throw a fit. Peter sets the plate of poached eggs before his niece. She frowns down at them.

“I’m not really hungry,” she says, and disappears. It’s a routine of theirs. Peter has learned to like his eggs poached, though he knows he makes a mean scrambled egg. He wonders if Stiles will be impressed.

The boy remains in a passionate discussion about which baby animal is cutest until Peter sets a plate of eggs in front of him and joins him at the table.

Stiles moans at the first bite. “These are amazing,” he says around his second mouthful. “Like, seriously amazing. Can I stay here forever?”

Peter’s wolf is howling in triumph, but he filters it into a smug grin. “Didn’t you have somewhere to be?”

“Yeah,” Stiles replies. “I can’t stay, really. My friend’s dad is always on the move. I’ve been playing catch up for the last three years, so I’m never in one place for long.”

“Well, you’re welcome here as long as you’re in town.”

Stiles’ eyes have narrowed. He points his fork at Peter. “Why are you helping me?”

Peter stares back thoughtfully, thinking of the many packs, omegas, druids, and all other manner of supernatural creature who showed up at the Hale doorstep begging for assistance over the years. So many, he advised Talia to turn away, because they had nothing to offer the Hales. Yet here he is with Stiles, a young man he is helping for free.

“How old are you, Stiles?” Peter deflects.

“Right. I guess this isn’t the first time I’ve gotten help because I’m one of the Pampered. Sure, we’re the youngest humans on Earth, but it’s not like we’re babies anymore!” Stiles rolls his eyes. Peter doesn’t bother to correct his assumption. “I’m 25.”

“No, you aren’t,” Peter replies, because he heard the stutter of Stiles’ heart.

“Fine, 24,” Stiles admits, honestly this time. “But you know, it’s another couple of months till it’s been exactly 25 years since the cut-off. I’m not a miracle or anything. Just born at the edge.”

“You look younger,” says Peter.

“I get that a lot. Some crazy two towns back tried to have me arrested. For science. Like if anyone is born after the cut-off they need to volunteer as a lab rat for the good of humanity.” Stiles turns to the side. “Yes, Mom, I’ll be more careful here.”

“Will you?” Peter asks. Inside, his wolf is snarling at the thought of Stiles in danger. The boy doesn’t seem to have the common sense necessary for survival. He had rather thoughtlessly followed Peter home, after all.

“Are you saying I shouldn’t have trusted you? Because if you’re an axe murderer, I gotta say the eggs were worth it.” Stiles has no common sense and acts like a little shit. He’s like some strange combination of Peter and Derek.

“I’m not a danger to you Stiles. Just concerned.”

“Very concerned. This idiot is going to get himself killed,” says Laura. She’s standing just behind Stiles, one hand resting on the back of his chair. It’s almost like her hand is on his shoulder, but it’s only an illusion. Ghosts cannot touch the living.

“I can take care of myself, Peter. Don’t worry.” Stiles glances behind him, and Peter wonders if one of Stiles’ ghosts is standing there too. Possibly exactly where Laura is standing. Can the personal ghosts of separate people occupy the same space, or do they exist in the same plane? Peter has interacted with so few people since the cut-off – since the fire, really – that he’s never had the opportunity to find out.

Stiles scrambles to his feet, slipping out of his chair without pushing it back. It confirms Peter’s hunch that one of Stiles’ ghosts is behind the chair. Laura is staring at Stiles, frowning, then she disappears.

“I’ll walk you out,” says Peter. He isn’t ready to see Stiles go, and when the boy is stepping out the front door, he can’t help but say, “Wolf pups.”

“What?” Stiles asks.

“Wolf pups are the cutest baby animals.”

Stiles laughs, bright and clear. Peter drinks him in, the way the sun glints off his dark hair, that pale face dotted with moles, those eyes just a shade away from Beta gold.

“Bye, Peter,” he says. Then with a lazy wave, he sets off down the street.

“Good luck, Stiles,” Peter murmurs.

He shuts the door and wanders into his living room. Stiles’ scent is strongest here, sunk deep into the couch and lingering along the books he had touched the night before.

“I can’t believe you just let him leave,” Laura says. “You like him, Uncle Peter. I can tell.”

“Patience, Laura,” says Peter. “We wouldn’t want to frighten him away, now would we?”

*

Peter wonders sometimes why his eyes are still red. How he’s remained an alpha all these years without a pack to keep him from falling to Omega. Then Cora will appear in his kitchen, asking him to make breakfast. Or Derek will be on his couch reading a book. Laura will nag him when he falls into one his funks till he goes out into the forest for a run, or to a bar to find some relief. Talia will appear the morning after a one-night-stand, disappointed and pitying in equal measure. 

Peter’s pack is dead, and the dead are Peter’s pack.

Stiles… Stiles is a chance for something new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My contribution to Steter Week 3.0, prompted by Day 6 - Future. I was hoping to have it finished in time, but figured I might as well post what I have so far.
> 
> Notes about the timeline: Peter was in his late twenties when the fire happened. He was no longer in Beacon Hills when the cut-off/Stiles' birth occurred a couple of years later. I've fiddled with characters' ages, so they don't quite match the show. Cora, for example, is not in the same age group as Stiles.


	2. The past casts shadows here and now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Kate Argent. Please note the added tags.

On Sundays, Peter usually goes for a run. Sometimes his ghosts will join him. Derek has a tendency to appear when Peter crosses the creek about a mile from the house. Laura likes to join him in a clearing near the middle of his route, where they can pick up speed and truly race. Cora likes to pop out of the underbrush at random to growl at him. Talia most often appears at the edge of the forest, waiting for him to come home. Surrounded by the sounds and scents of the forest, it’s easier to ignore the fact that he can’t smell his pack, or hear their hearts race along with his. When Peter runs, he can forget for a time.

This Sunday, Peter pulls out his laptop and settles onto a couch that smells of Stiles. He doesn’t want to scare the boy away, but knowledge is power. Peter has a strange nickname and the names of three ghosts to work with, along with one helpful anecdote: two towns back, Stiles was almost arrested. There should be a record of the encounter in police records. Luckily, hacking is one of the many skills that Peter had the opportunity to hone during his hunt for Kate, and he’s always had a talent for research.

“Are you doing what I think you’re doing?” Laura queries, stretching out on the couch beside Peter. “Because this feels like the opposite of not scaring him away. This little bit of research is like the gateway drug to hardcore stalking.”

“It won’t be a little bit of research,” Peter answers, “It’s going to be a thorough investigation. I need to know what threats might have followed Stiles here, and how I can eliminate them. Starting with the man who tried to have him arrested.”

Peter ignores Laura’s protests. He starts with Stiles’ appearance and name, and scours databases of nearby cities, slowly increasing the radius of his search. There isn’t any record for Stiles within a 100-mile radius. When he uses just a physical description, however, there’s a report in a town 50 miles south about a man fitting Stiles’ description being detained by local police for questioning and released the same day. He is listed as Callum Scott, age 25. It’s likely an alias, surname derived from Stiles’ ghost. Further investigation into local news reveals an article about a man harassing the Pampered – a history of stalking that ends when his altercation with Stiles draws his past actions to the attention of the police. His behaviour doesn’t seem to centre around Stiles – the boy was just in the wrong place at the wrong time – and the man is now in jail. Peter notes down the man’s name anyway.

“If I could get my hands on that pervert,” Laura spits, from where she’s been reading over Peter’s shoulder. Peter hums in agreement.

A search further south along the East Coast, using both Stiles’ description and his name, filtering for Stiles as a first name, he finds a missing persons report filed for one Stiles Stilinski in New York by Natalie Martin. The report was recalled within 24 hours, but the record remains. It is barely six months old.

“Huh,” says Laura. “So someone cares about where he is. Or cared for, like, a day and then gave up.”

Natalie left the police an address, and Peter uses this information to sort through the results of a Google search for Natalie Martin. From what he can find, she’s a divorced woman living on the Upper East Side with a daughter about Stiles’ age. She’s a prominent member of M4MW, or Moms for Mental Wellness – a local support group for the mothers of children with mental health problems. She also has a profile on NYVSS, the New York Virtual School System. She works as a teacher, facilitating the online courses that have long since replaced the physical classrooms that Peter remembers. Peter feels a chill pass through him as he reads that Natalie Martin obtained her degree in teaching from Beacon Hills Community College.

“That’s… a coincidence,” says Laura. “Right?”

Peter doesn’t bother to respond. He hacks into the real estate agency responsible for the sale of Natalie’s house in New York, tracks down the name of Natalie’s agent, and finds the address of a previous residence sold by the same agent on behalf of Mr. and Mrs. Martin. It’s a house in Beacon Hills. From the dates for the sale and purchase of their properties, Peter surmises that the Martins moved to New York in search of better medical care during Natalie’s pregnancy.

The daughter, Lydia, was born the day before the cut-off. She participated in a ridiculous number of beauty pageants, until she was committed to a psychiatric hospital for three months at 16. It isn’t hard for Peter to find records for prescription anti-anxiety medication leading from then up to the present. Interestingly, she has a PhD in mathematics, linguistics, and mythological studies from three different online universities, and an impressive number of papers published for someone her age.

“So mysterious woman formerly of Beacon Hills and genius daughter, somehow associated with Stiles.”

“Stiles Stilinski, if the missing person’s report is accurate,” Peter remarks.

He enters a search for Stiles Stilinski with trepidation.

It’s a 14-year-old obituary that pops up, for one Claudia Stilinski in the Beacon Hills Tribunal. It’s reported that she was survived by her husband, John, and son, Stiles. Searching the Beacon Hills Tribunal for Stilinski, Peter finds a mix of articles about Claudia Stilinski, advocate for personal connections in spite of ghosts, and also Sheriff Stilinski, Stiles’ father. His popularity as Sheriff began to decline when his wife was first hospitalized – illness undisclosed – and he resigned shortly after her death. The former Sheriff’s death is not reported, nor are there any official records of his or his son’s departure from Beacon Hills.

“He was pretty young when he lost his Mom,” Laura whispers. Her eyes are glowing red, and Peter wonders if she’s thinking about the fire, the feeling of suffocating and burning overlaid with a rush of power that is at once euphoric and horrifying. It’s an experience that they share, though Laura did not survive it. Her tenure as alpha was short-lived and yet, with her ghost upon the Earth, remains eternal.

“We still don’t know what happened to his father, or exactly how his mother died,” Peter murmurs. He regards Laura contemplatively. “Can you see his ghosts? Speak to them?”

“I can only see the living,” says Laura. “And you’re the only one who sees me.” She’s biting her lip in a way that tells Peter that she has more to say. He waits, knowing the silence will draw her out. She picks at her nails, averting her eyes from Peter’s. Her voice is so small when she finally looks up and says, “You’ve never asked me about this kind of thing before. What it’s like to be dead.”

Though he cannot smell it, Peter can see Laura’s fear in her wide, unseeing eyes. He wants to lean forward, nuzzle her cheek in comfort. Peter hasn’t seen Laura looking vulnerable since before the fire. Since that first night when she appeared before him as a ghost, Laura has been chipper and encouraging. That happy mask is now torn away.

“Where do you go, when you aren’t with me?” Peter asks. “Where do you all go?”

Laura’s eyes focus on Peter, shining alpha red. “It feels like I’m still burning,” she says, and is gone.

There are three names Peter can still search for: Scott, Melissa, and Allison.

He goes for a run instead.

*

Peter runs, and runs, and runs. Past trees, over the creak, across the clearing, and back again. Over and over. He runs until his whole body aches, even with his alpha stamina, and then he slinks back home. He hasn’t seen any of his ghosts since Laura left. 

It isn’t until he’s letting himself in the back door that his thoughts go to Stiles. Has the boy come by the house while Peter has been out in the forest losing himself? Peter heads back outside and circles the house, but there is no evidence that Stiles has been at the house since his departure earlier that morning. Peter swallows his wolf’s instinct to curl into a ball on the front porch and wait for the boy. Instead, he forces himself through a quick shower and collapses onto his bed. He thinks of Stiles’ presence the previous night, how he spoke to his ghosts before falling asleep.

“Goodnight Laura,” Peter finds himself murmuring. “Derek. Cora. Talia. I… I miss you.”

*

Peter’s body is on fire, thrumming with a power he was never meant to have, and he can’t move a muscle. He’s lying down, he thinks, on a bed so stiff it could be stone. There’s someone standing at the foot of it, a woman whose sweet perfume is cloying enough to overpower the choking antiseptics in the air.

“Here lies the last of the mighty Hales,” she intones. “I’m sure there are plenty of dogs in mourning right now. How many of them do you think will be so distraught, so lost without the Hales to guide them and protect them, that they forget to defend themselves when my brethren come for them? When we sneak into your dens – poison you, trap you, burn you? It’s going to be a great year, I can already tell. Not for your kind, of course.” She laughs, and it echoes somewhere deep inside of Peter. He was lying here yesterday, listening to that laugh. He’ll be lying here tomorrow, listening still.

“I almost want to kill you now,” says the woman, and somehow the laughter continues even as she speaks, even as she stalks closer. “Put your ugly mug out of its misery. Hm… you haven’t seen your own face yet, have you? Haven’t seen what’s been burned away? Shame you won’t open those pretty blue eyes for me. I bet they’re just as pretty as your nephew’s. He’s so precious when he’s crying, you know. And he cried every single time.” There’s a nail, trailing sharply from his bottom eyelid down the length of his cheek. “I thought about keeping him, as a pet, but Daddy wouldn’t approve.” She sighs, wistful and chilling. “I suppose your eyes must be red, these days. Who can tell?

“But you do have a purpose, mutt.” He can feel her breath on his face now, smell her rotten breath or perhaps his own rotting skin. Her hand is cupping his cheek in a mockery of tenderness. “How many do you think will make their way here, to stand beside the last of the Hales? How many do you think will try to protect you? And how many will come to steal your power?” She scoffs. “You may be an alpha, Peter Hale, but you have no power. What power you had belongs to me.”

Alpha. It’s a thought, a promise, a hope that drowns out the laughter, and the woman, and the world. Alpha, alpha, alpha. Peter Hale is an alpha, and alphas do not kneel.

Peter is running, through darkness, after prey. Peter is running until he is upon her, claws ripping her throat open. The woman – Kate – bleeds out beneath him as his teeth and claws tear into her. He rips her to shreds and thinks finally, finally, finally. It’s over. It’s done.

He looks up, and Derek is standing there, tears in his eyes.

“Derek,” Peter calls, stumbling to his feet. His nephew morphs into his youngest niece, arms outstretched. He can smell the smoke on her. He feels the heat all around them.

“Uncle Peter,” she whines. He steps forward but he cannot reach her.

“Uncle Peter.” He spins around and Laura is there. She mouths the words, “It feels like I’m still burning.”

And he is – burning. He’s lying on a bed, burning, and there’s a voice at the foot of his bed. It isn’t a woman’s, though he can her laughter. It’s Stiles, who tells him, “You’ll be survived by no one.”

*

Peter wakes, and lies frozen. He keeps his eyes closed and stretches out with his other senses. He breathes in the scent of home, the small lingering hints of Stiles. He listens to the wind in the trees out back, the low buzz of life in the forest, the beat of his own heart slowing. The sheets are soft against his skin, his body sunk deep into the mattress. Kate is dead and Peter is not burning.

He opens his eyes and notes that it is not yet dawn. It is not yet dawn, but he has work to do. He makes his way to the living room, to the couch where Stiles’ scent is fading away, and settles there with his laptop. He has three names to investigate.

Separately, Melissa, Scott, and Allison each turn up too many hits in the Beacon Hills Tribunal to bother with. Together, Melissa and Scott give him two hits. The first is an obituary, this one six years old, written for a Melissa McCall who was survived by her son Scott. Peter recognizes Melissa’s face in the obituary from some of the articles about Stiles’ mother. Melissa was standing in the background, or at Claudia’s side, in quite a few of the pictures. The second hit is a short article reporting the unfortunate death of local nurse Melissa McCall, who fell down the stairs at the hospital while on shift. Her son, noted as having only recently turned 18, declined to comment. 

A search for Scott McCall yields nothing new. As with Stiles’ father, there is no obituary for Scott McCall.

A search for Melissa McCall brings up a marriage announcement, between Rafael McCall and Melissa McCall née Delgado, but nothing more. Allison McCall, Allison Delgado, and Allison Stilinski yield nothing.

Peter sets his laptop to the side as he considers what he’s found. Scott seems to have been the same age as Stiles, which means that Melissa was probably a sort of aunt for Stiles, possibly his godmother. Allison is likely the friend whose father is missing, and Peter does not have her surname. Yet.

Melissa’s death is suspicious. It makes Peter question Claudia’s as well. Both occurred at Beacon Hills General. Perhaps Stiles and the others had to run from Beacon Hills for reasons similar to Peter's own. Perhaps it wasn’t safe for them there any longer.

“Uncle Peter,” says Cora, suddenly beside him on the couch. “I want eggs for breakfast.”

*

Stiles does not turn up to join Peter for breakfast. Peter is not worried.

Peter is not worried, but his wolf is half out of his mind. Peter remembers that Stiles claimed to have some money. He could have gotten himself a hotel room. His wolf does not understand this possibility. The wolf feels that Stiles is theirs, and what is theirs belongs in their den. If Stiles is not there, Stiles must be hurt somewhere else, unable to come home.

Peter is not just wolf, and not just man. He allows his wolf to indulge in the madness of worry for Stiles on behalf of both of them, and forces himself to go to work.

Work is a small office on the east side of town. For a human, it’s about an hour’s walk from Peter’s home. Peter does it regularly in less than twenty minutes. The office consists of two desks in a cramped room at the corner of the building, which is shared with a number of other tiny offices for other companies Peter has never cared to remember. There are only two desks in the office, one for Peter, and one for the only other employee who chooses to commute in to work instead of working from home. The town Peter lives in is about an hour outside of Boston, so their office is known as the Boston office for Hart & Holt Press. Peter’s fellow commuter is the son of the late head of the Boston office, the man who originally hired Peter. It’s to appease the man’s ghost that his son physically comes in to work. He’s a quiet worker, thankfully, and Peter isn’t much bothered by his presence.

Peter genuinely enjoys his work as an editor. Amongst a portfolio of authors assigned to him by the company, Peter also has a small collection of clients that he brought in himself. Members of the latter group hail from the supernatural side of life, and Peter enjoys editing their works to prevent hunters from gaining any true insight into the supernatural. As an editor in general, he enjoys the opportunity to eviscerate people with words. It’s so hard to come by, in this society where speaking to another human being is frowned upon. The only downside is that he can’t see their reactions. Peter Hale is a terror as an editor, and he accepts nothing less than perfect from his authors.

Peter’s latest project is Yuki Murakami’s second novel. Peter took great delight in handling her first work, a tale of war between fox spirits set against the backdrop of World War II. Her second novel is more about family drama, set in modern times. Like many of its contemporaries, it plays with the idea of what it means to raise a child without connecting enough to return as a ghost. Unlike other stories, though, Murakami weaves the narrative with poetic grace.

Peter has only just opened up the manuscript to where he left off last when Derek appears at his side. This is not unusual. Derek, despite having joined the basketball team in freshman year in an attempt to change his image, adores reading. As a ghost, he can somehow call the books that once lined his bookshelf at home and read them. The books are just as incorporeal as Derek. When Peter tried to read one over Derek’s shoulder, he found himself too dizzy to make sense of it. Still, Peter is glad that Derek has some form of comfort available to him.

It’s reading new things that gives Derek trouble. He cannot turn the pages of physical books himself. The solution, of course, is to read over Peter’s shoulder. Derek actually reads a little bit faster than Peter, and certainly faster than Peter when he is editing, but the ghost never complains. Derek as a ghost barely speaks a word to Peter.

It’s a quiet day at work with Derek at his side.

*

Peter is a block away from home when a familiar earthy scent hits him. It has him grinning instantly. He walks into his house and recognizes the scent and heartbeat in his living room.

“Stiles,” he says. He isn’t sure what emotion it is in his voice. Relief, joy, surprise, satisfaction. Peter’s wolf is howling with it all. “I didn’t think I gave you a key.”

“It was unlocked,” says Stiles easily, but Peter can read his heartbeat.

“No, it wasn’t.”

“You have a spare key.” Not really a lie this time, just an incorrect guess. Peter stares Stiles down. “Yeah, I picked the lock. It was cold. You said I was welcome here.”

“You are welcome,” says Peter, settling onto the couch beside Stiles, though he forces himself to leave a bit of a gap between them. If he curls up at Stiles’ side, nuzzles into the flesh of that pale neck as his wolf desires, he’ll scare the boy away. “I just wanted you to admit your misdeed.”

“Right,” says Stiles. “My dad is so not impressed with me right now.”

“Is your mother not with us at the moment?”

“Oh, she is,” says Stiles, “but she’s mostly amused. A little disappointed that I can’t seem to lie to you.” Peter smiles, waiting patiently as Stiles stares into an empty corner of the room. “Allison says I’m still a good liar. You’re just good at sensing lies.”

“Very good,” Peter agrees. Stiles is gazing at him rather intently, searching for something in Peter’s face.

“He’s back,” says Laura, relieved. Peter breaks eye contact with Stiles to look at his niece. She seems calm, the fear and despair from their last interaction erased. She offers Peter a sheepish smile. “You were right, you know. Not talking about it. Let’s not talk about it.”

“Okay, Laura,” says Peter. She nods once and fades away. Peter turns back to Stiles. “Did your lead pan out?”

“Yeah, sort of.” Stiles brushes a hand through his hair. “He was definitely here. Not sure if he still is, or if he’s moved on. Either way, my best bet is to stay in town for now, keep looking. You really don’t mind if I stay here?”

“I don’t mind, Stiles. Though I hope you didn’t spend last night shivering in an alley because you weren’t sure of your welcome.”

“Got a room at a motel, actually,” Stiles says. Peter’s nose can detect the layer of cheap soap and shampoo that Stiles must have used there. “Would you believe me if I told you that this sofa is a million times more comfortable than their mattresses?’

“Absolutely,” says Peter, leaning in slightly. Stiles seems oddly frozen, his heartbeat picking up. “Not still worried I’m an axe murderer, are you?”

There’s a slight pause before Stiles replies, somewhat breathlessly, “Didn’t I tell you the eggs are worth it?”

“I think we can do better than eggs this time,” Peter offers. He smiles at Stiles, watching the boy’s eyes dart down to Peter’s lips and back up to his eyes. There’s a flush crawling up Stiles’ neck, and Peter can see the beads of sweat there. His wolf wants to taste them, taste every inch of Stiles. The boy’s eyes flick to the right. Peter is suddenly reminded that they probably have an audience, which likely includes the boy’s parents. For a moment, he’s tempted to close the distance between them anyway. Instead, he leans back by the slightest margin, suppressing laughter when Stiles instinctively leans in after him. “How does chicken cacciatore sound?”

Stiles makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat and jerks to his feet. His whole face is red. “Yeah, that sounds great. I love chicken. Don’t I love chicken, Scott? Melissa, you always made the meanest chicken noodle soup. Sorry, Mom, but you know it’s true.”

Peter laughs as he follows Stiles into the kitchen.


	3. Our troubles buried in a shallow grave

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had a little trouble with this chapter. Mostly because Peter and Stiles didn't want to stop talking.
> 
> Also, Lydia Martin refuses to stay out of this fic. She was originally supposed to be born - or rather not born - after the cut-off. Then she was supposed to be a throwaway reference to flesh out Stiles' past. Now I have all these plans for my banshee in this 'verse and, well, I had to add her character to the tags.
> 
> Basically, no one is cooperating with me, but hopefully you enjoy the chapter anyways.

Stiles demolishes his plate of chicken cacciatore, though he’s too full for seconds. The boy isn’t quite underweight, but Peter suspects he’s been making do on small portions for some time now.

“That was awesome,” Stiles says. “Really, really awesome. Scott is super jealous right now.”

“I’m sure he is,” Peter agrees. He rises to his feet to take care of the dishes.

“So,” Stiles continues. “Scott also thinks I should tell you that I, uh, looked into you. A little bit.”

“Oh?” Peter busies himself with rinsing the dishes at the sink.

“I mean, I had your full name. My dad thought he recognized it? He was a deputy back in Beacon Hills when…” Stiles trails away. Peter shuts off the water, sets the plates down and turns to face Stiles. “You are from Beacon Hills, right? You’re the Peter Hale that survived the fire?”

“I am,” says Peter, and Laura’s words echo in his head: it feels like I’m still burning.

“I saw pictures,” Stiles continues haltingly. “From after the fire. You were in a coma, and-”

“Severely burned on my right side.” Peter smiles with his teeth. “If you’re wondering how my charming good looks were restored, you can thank the wonders of plastic surgery.”

“Right,” Stiles coughs and shifts in his seat. Peter focuses on the boy’s heartbeat, willing himself to calm down. His wolf isn’t even angry with Stiles. The wolf thinks that Stiles should know everything about them. “You know,” Stiles continues, “I’ve never met anyone with more personal ghosts than I have now.”

“You still haven’t,” says Peter. He turns around to continue washing the dishes, so he doesn’t have to meet Stiles’ eyes as he says, “I only have four. My sister and her children. I suppose I wasn’t close enough to my brother-in-law for him to come back.”

Stiles is silent for a moment. Peter wonders if Stiles’ ghosts are saying something, or if he’s merely processing Peter’s words. Peter has set one clean plate on the drying rack before Stiles asks, “What about your parents?”

“We were never very close.” Peter scrubs at a stubborn spot of dried tomato. “Talia was the firstborn and absorbed most of their attention. That being said, I suppose you have my mother to thank for my proficiency in the kitchen. She tried to teach Talia first, of course, but my sister was an abysmal cook.” Peter sets the second plate on the drying rack and moves onto the kitchenware he’d used to prepare the meal. “I’ve always rather enjoyed cooking. It’s been awhile since I’ve had anyone to share a meal with.”

“Did you do most of the cooking in your family?” 

“No, actually,” says Peter. “My brother-in-law went to culinary school. He had plans to open a restaurant in Paris before he met Talia and fell in love. By the time I got back from college, the kitchen had become his domain.”

Peter is aware of the bitterness in his voice. He can still hear Talia ordering him to stay out of the kitchen, to give Michael a place within the pack. Beyond breakfast for the kids on those mornings when Talia and Michael slept in, Peter obeyed. It’s a point of contention between siblings that Peter moved past a long time ago. Cooking for Stiles now makes him wonder. Talia was well-respected for her wisdom as Alpha Hale, but she could be quite blind when it came to being Peter’s alpha.

“Here, let me help you,” says Stiles, gently tugging the fork out of Peter’s hand. Peter realizes that he didn’t even notice Stiles’ approach. Peter wonders how long he’s been scrubbing that particular piece of cutlery. “I’ll wash, you dry?” Stiles proposes.

Peter nods, and reaches over to grab the dishtowel from the rail on the oven door. It’s relaxing, working alongside Stiles. Their fingers brush whenever Stiles hands Peter another item to dry, and each touch seems to melt away another layer of tension. Peter’s wolf is a ball of rumbling contentment by the time they’re finished.

“Thank you for dinner,” Stiles says, as he follows Peter’s lead into the living room. “I’m sorry for bringing up bad memories. And for digging into your past.”

“It’s alright, Stiles,” Peter reassures. He waits for Stiles to settle on the couch beside him before saying, “I’ll admit that I was curious enough to look into you.”

“Really?” Stiles’ head is tilted to the side in curiosity. They’re facing each other, knees a hair’s breadth apart.

“Did you know that the man who tried to have you arrested two towns back is in jail now? Apparently he had a penchant for stalking the Pampered. Your little encounter brought him under scrutiny from the police.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“I suppose it’s a good thing Callum Scott was in town that day.”

“That’s an alias,” Stiles says quickly.

“Do you usually carry a fake id that you can present to the police?”

“Well, you never know when you might need one.”

“Hm. Breaking and entering, identity fraud. Should I be worried about your criminal tendencies?”

Stiles shrugs. “I come by them honestly. Mom had a, uh, interesting youth. She ended up with an unconventional set of life skills that she considered indispensable. Oh, and technically, it only qualifies as breaking and entering if I intend to commit a crime within the premises, which I don’t. Also, it’s only identity fraud if I’m using someone else’s personal data. Callum Scott doesn’t actually exist. So, it’s more like unlawful entry and felony fake id.” 

“Oh my gosh. He’s such a smart-mouthed little delinquent,” Laura coos. She’s perched on the armrest behind Stiles. Peter grins, and finds a savage glee in the blush it inspires on Stiles’ cheeks.

“Your alias is 25. Do you always lie about your age?”

“Yes,” says Stiles unrepentantly. “Did you find anything else?”

“You’re also from Beacon Hills, though you admitted as much yourself earlier. Your mother was an advocate for personal connections. Your father was a Sheriff, though he resigned after your mother’s death. You were just a boy at the time.”

Stiles’ eyes have widened. “You got all that from Stiles? Seriously?”

“Stiles Stilinski, actually. It’s the name recorded on a missing persons report filed in New York by Natalie Martin.”

“Oh,” says Stiles, tone carefully neutral. Peter can hear how his heart rate picks up. “Right. That was just a misunderstanding.”

“Did you know that Natalie Martin is also from Beacon Hills?”

“It’s a small word after all,” Stiles responds, shifting in his seat. Laura is frowning, gaze flicking back and forth between Stiles and Peter. “You know how I said you weren’t the first person to help me because I’m one of the Pampered? Yeah, Natalie also has a bit of a soft spot for my generation.”

“I suppose that makes sense, given that her daughter is your age.” Stiles goes rigid at the mention of the younger Martin.

“Maybe you should change the subject,” Laura suggests. She’s twisting her hands in her lap the way she used to as a child, when she felt useless during meetings with other packs but was required to attend as alpha heir apparent.

“I’ve upset you,” says Peter. He leans back to give Stiles space, and Stiles mirrors him. The boy’s eyes drift to the side as he listens to something that his ghosts are telling him. Stiles takes a few deep breaths before meeting Peter’s eyes again.

“I’m a little overprotective of Lydia. I only knew her for six months or so, but we had a lot more in common than I was expecting. She’s like the sister I never had,” Stiles explains. As he speaks, the tension seeps out of him. He’s leaning towards Peter once more. Laura lets out a relieved sigh, winks at Peter, and fades away. “Everyone I cared about back in Beacon Hills is a ghost now. Lydia… she’s important to me.”

“So what made you leave New York?”

“I had to find Allison’s dad,” says Stiles, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I may or may not have forgotten to inform Natalie that I was leaving and she may or may not have freaked out and filed a missing persons report before Lydia could get her to calm down. Lydia wasn’t very happy with me. For leaving, and for leaving the way I did.”

Peter can smell the guilt that Stiles feels. He draws the conversation back to Allison’s father. “You know, you haven’t asked for my help to find this man? You haven’t even told me his name.”

“Haven’t I?” Stiles laughs shakily. “Sorry. I guess I’m just used to thinking of him as Allison’s dad. We were never really close. I mean, he was pretty against Scott and Allison getting together. He warmed up to Scott eventually – you can’t help loving Scott.” Stiles turns his head to shoot a smile in what Peter presumes is the ghost’s direction. “I’m a little, uh, harder to take, I guess? Anyway, his name is Colin Ashwood. He’s about 5’ 8”, Caucasian with grey hair, blue eyes. He had a beard and a mustache the last time I saw him.”

Peter was half-expecting Stiles to lie, or deflect, but his heartbeat remains steady.

“Do you have a picture of him?” Peter has never heard of Colin Ashwood. His wolf has already formed a grudge against the man. How can anyone not love Stiles?

“I used to,” says Stiles. “I used to have pictures of all of us. Lost them a while back though.” Stiles is hugging himself, eyes downcast.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t seen him,” Peter admits.

“It’s okay,” says Stiles, rallying. “I’m a Sheriff’s kid. I’m pretty good at sniffing out clues and thinking my way out of dead ends.” Stiles glances around the room thoughtfully. “Could I set up a crime board in here? It would help me think. I haven’t had one since New York.”

“Of course,” says Peter. “But Stiles, why are you so intent on finding Ashwood? You said you weren’t close, but you’ve been looking for three years.”

Stiles stares at Peter. “I owe it to Allison, to make sure that her dad is alright. And he has some answers that I need about…” Stiles’ eyes trail to the side, where his ghosts are likely standing. “Things I don’t like to talk about.”

“Okay,” says Peter, because he’s willing to play the long game with Stiles. He could push here, wring out every last answer he desires, but in the end what he wants most is Stiles, in whatever capacity the boy is willing to offer. What’s more, Peter understands how Stiles feels. He isn’t sure that he’ll ever want to talk about what Kate did to him and his family. He certainly isn’t ready to admit that he’s a werewolf. “We all have things we don’t like to talk about.”

They stare at each other wordlessly. At some point, the space between them has evaporated. Their knees are touching, and one of Stiles' hands is twitching, like he wants to reach out to Peter.

“You know, it’s nice to have someone, uh, new to talk to.” Stiles’ heartbeat has picked up again. He turns to gaze at empty space.

“Are your ghosts making you feel guilty, Stiles? They shouldn’t be. It’s natural to seek out other people. I know that concept might be foreign for your generation, but it’s the truth.”

“No, I know,” Stiles says. “My mom is a pretty big advocate for personal connections, remember? Besides, I can’t imagine growing up without Scott for a brother. And Melissa’s always been like family to me. She’s Scott’s Mom, and my mom’s best friend. She was even the midwife at my birth. She’s the most badass nurse I know.”

Stiles has drawn back during his rant. Peter’s wolf huffs in disappointment.

“You talk about your ghosts very freely. And in the present tense,” Peter remarks.

“I’m not ashamed of them,” Stiles says. “And they’re still present, aren’t they?”

“I’m not saying you should be ashamed, Stiles. I have almost as many ghosts as you.”

“That’s different. That was before. People treat you differently, when you’re one of the Pampered and you have a lot of ghosts, or a lot of friends, or any friends. They think you should know better. It’s bullshit. As if they raised us – their own kids – without connecting enough to return as ghosts.”

“Humans are hypocrites by nature.”

“Yeah. But also, people treat ghosts like they’re this horrible thing. There’s no evidence that every ghost who comes back means that somewhere in the world a baby just died. Temporal closeness is not proof of causality. Lydia’s working on a paper about that. She’s actually managed to trace the decline in birth rates and the rise of infertility back years and years, long before the ghosts came. In the early days, a lot of governments tried to cover it up to prevent a panic. Blamed certain drugs or diets or lifestyles. Said it was all temporary.”

“Does she do a lot of work along those lines?”

“Not officially,” says Stiles, “But she is interested in getting to the bottom of the whole infertility equals ghosts madness.”

“You don’t think of it as a trade, then?” Peter asks. “New life sacrificed for old?”

“How would that even work? And when exactly did we agree to this deal?”

“Who says a deal was struck? Perhaps we were cursed.”

They continue to speculate on the origins of the cut-off and ghosts. It’s far more playful than their earlier topics. Stiles happily shares the imaginings of his own ghosts. Laura pops in momentarily, to tease Peter about Stiles, but mercifully leaves them alone without too much fuss. Peter thinks he sees Talia for a moment, an unreadable expression on her face, but he blinks and she’s gone. When Stiles can’t seem to get a word in without yawning, Peter calls it a night and gets the couch set up with clean sheets. He smiles softly when Stiles basically passes out the moment his head hits the pillow.

“Goodnight, Stiles,” he murmurs fondly.

When he enters his bedroom, Talia is sitting at the edge of his bed. “Peter,” she begins.

“I’m busy,” Peter declares. Whatever hang-ups Talia has about Stiles, Peter does not want to hear them. “I just came from a very productive meeting with relaxation and calm, and I have an appointment with Mr. Sandman that cannot be pushed back. Try again some other time. Or don’t.”

“Peter-”

“Goodn-”

“I didn’t know you loved cooking so much,” she interrupts. Peter stares at her blankly. “I mean, I thought you resented it. Cooking. Because it was something Mom made you learn, some useless thing not necessary for being alpha that she taught you because she thought you never would be.” Peter opens his mouth to interject, but Talia steamrolls over him. “Oh, I know it isn’t useless. I married Michael, didn’t I? I just, I never saw how much it made you happy. I thought I was doing you a favour, ordering you to let Michael have the run of the kitchen. And then I thought maybe you were trying to take over the kitchen to express your disapproval of Michael.”

“I never had a problem with Michael. He was a good man. Did it not occur to you to just ask me?”

“You aren’t exactly known for giving straight answers,” Talia snaps. “Ugh, sorry. I’m sorry.” She pauses, and her expression becomes gentle. “You know I’ve always needed you to tell me when I’m being blind.”

“Yes. I know.”

Talia stands from the bed, expression thoughtful. “I hope you know what you’re doing with that boy, Peter. I know how much you love a good mystery. But he’s more than that. He could be good for you.”

“Yes. I know,” Peter repeats. Talia smiles at him softly, then floats backwards through the wall.

Peter lies awake for a long moment after she’s gone, thinking of how Talia’s sharp edges conceal her softer side. This feels like the first time since the fire that he’s seen anything but her edges.

*

The next morning, when Peter goes to join Stiles in the living room, the boy is not alone. Derek stands in a corner, staring at Stiles.

"Derek,” Peter greets quietly. Stiles remains immersed in his book, but Derek turns to look at Peter.

"He's reading one of my books."

Peter blinks, eyes darting to where Stiles is curled up on the couch. There’s a familiar, worn copy of Through the Looking Glass in his hands. This isn’t one of the books that Derek can summon at his leisure. There are only two physical books in the house that once belonged to Derek. They survived the fire because they were in his nephew’s locker at school. There’s Derek’s personal copy of To Kill A Mockingbird, because he didn’t like to use the school copies of novels, and there’s the battered copy of Through the Looking Glass that Peter gave him as a birthday present.

"Does it bother you?” Peter asks.

Derek stares Peter down. His face is not quite old enough to be intimidating. His angry expression has always looked a little bit absurd, with the way his eyebrows seem to dominate his face. It makes for an odd sort of juxtaposition with the residual baby fat in his cheeks. Peter wonders what kind of man his nephew might have grown to be. Whether he would have grown into his darling eyebrows. Derek is more confused than angry right now, eyebrows scrunched up so that he looks a little constipated.

"Is he pack?” Derek asks.

Peter's eyes shoot back to Stiles. The boy has a small frown on his face, and Peter wonders which part of the story has him so adorably perplexed.

He turns to answer Derek, but his nephew is already gone.

*

Stiles fits into Peter’s life. It’s as simple as that. Peter has been living in this city, waiting in this house, for Stiles to step inside and breathe life into it. For the first time since the fire, Peter is forming good memories.

Peter cooks for Stiles every day, soaking in his reactions to everything, from a simple macaroni and cheese to a decadent crème brûlée. He now knows the face Stiles makes when something tastes better than he was expecting, the way his nose crinkles when he finds something too spicy, and the look of bliss that overtakes him when his sweet tooth is indulged. Peter doesn’t have a recipe for curly fries in his repertoire, but he vows to perfect one when Stiles tells him that they’re his favourite.

Stiles introduces Peter to a number of reality TV shows. They’re mindless constructions, a taste that Stiles picked up during late nights in cheap motel rooms. Stiles, to Peter’s delight, keeps up a running commentary. He’s judging the contestants at every turn, and laughing at all the ridiculous ways in which the shows try to prevent any meaningful connections. Peter joins in on the ribbing with gusto. The nights they spend together on the couch, snarking at each other and at the screen, become his new favourite pastime. Peter’s wolf adores it too, because Stiles is more often than not leaning against Peter’s side.

Laura is, of course, insufferably smug. She alternates between teasing them playfully and leering at them. Derek has taken to reading over Stiles’ shoulder. “He reads faster than you,” his nephew explains. Talia can often be found standing in a corner, or leaning against the doorframe, smiling at them. Cora has a crush on Stiles. If Stiles is in a room with Peter, she’ll trail behind Stiles with puppy eyes. She hasn’t visited Peter at night sobbing since Stiles first arrived. It’s like she’s just as soothed by the boy’s presence as Peter is.

Peter hears a great deal about Stiles’ own ghosts. He learns about Scott, the asthmatic kid who was always willing to run into danger with Stiles, the aspiring vet, the idealist who fell in love with the new girl in town and married her despite her father’s protests.

Stiles talks about Allison with an odd combination of guilt and fondness. He hears about Allison Ashwood, the strange new girl in town who didn’t attend school with the rest of them. Then comes Allison as Scott’s true love, competing with Stiles for Scott’s attention. Lastly, he hears of Allison McCall as Stiles’ best friend, the one who understands his darker sense of humour and knows that Scott needs protecting.

Peter learns that Stiles inherited his penchant for mischief from his mother, his sense of justice from his father, and his love of sarcasm from both. John taught Stiles how to ride a bike, but also how to shoot a gun. Claudia taught Stiles how to pick locks, jumpstart cars, and lie convincingly. As far back as Stiles can remember, she was fighting for the right to be connected. It’s largely thanks to her efforts that Stiles attended a physical school, that he’s had a chance to play team sports like lacrosse, that he can’t imagine life without other people at his side. Peter likes Claudia, though he’s never met her and never will.

Peter gains respect for Melissa, the woman who was like a third parent for Stiles. The one to scold him for getting into mischief when his father was too busy at work and his mother was too busy laughing. She’s the one who patched up Stiles and Scott after all of their childhood misadventures. Peter has Melissa to thank for the fact that Stiles survived to adulthood. 

For all that he hears about Stiles’ ghosts, he never hears about their deaths. Stiles hasn’t shared the darker side of his life in Beacon Hills, and there is a darker side. It’s a shadow that Peter sees in the way that Stiles is so careful of his words sometimes, and in the hunted expression that steals over him at the oddest moments.

If there’s still a distance between Peter and Stiles, an acknowledgment of secrets they are not yet ready to share, Peter is content to wait. If they’re dancing around each other, coming close and pulling back, it’s enough that they’re dancing together. Peter’s wolf is languid these days, basking in the glow of Stiles’ presence.

Peter still has questions, and a number of theories that he wants to confirm, but he’s in no hurry. It’s been more than a week since that first night, and Stiles seems to have lost Ashwood’s trail.

It’s like they’re standing at the edge of some great ocean, about to dive into the waters. Peter is content to drown in the possibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think, especially any speculation you might have about the past or the future.


	4. The violence in our bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added some chapter titles.

Over time, Peter has noticed that Stiles has started to clean himself up. Among other things, he’s procured new clothes and a new backpack.

“You’re looking much better these days,” Peter says one night, a week and a half after Stiles’ first appearance. He and Stiles are washing the dishes after dinner. Cora is underfoot, jumping up and down trying to catch Stiles’ attention. She’s ignored all of Peter’s attempts to get her to calm down thus far. “Did your mother teach you to pick pockets as well as locks?”

“Of course she did,” says Stiles as he hands Peter a plate to dry. There’s a bit of foam stuck to his nose that has it twitching. Peter wipes the suds away with a laugh. “But it isn’t something that I do. Anymore.” Stiles glances behind him. “Don’t start, Dad!”

“Got a job in town?” asks Peter. Cora seems to have run out of energy and has settled cross-legged at Stiles’ feet, pouting.

“Nah, I write papers, you know, for lazy students. Kind of still a moral grey area, I guess, but I can do it from pretty much anywhere. The money is decent, enough to get by on. How’s the publishing business these days?”

“Fairly lucrative. People like to lose themselves in stories, and their social calendars have been all freed up for some quality reading time.”

“Social calendar,” Stiles repeats. “That’s a weird thought.” 

The dishes are washed and dried, so Stiles tugs Peter onto the couch beside him to watch TV and snark. Peter spends more time staring at Stiles than he does the screen. There’s something arresting about the smattering of moles across Stiles’ cheek. Peter imagines tracing them with a finger, cupping Stiles’ cheeks in his hands, mapping out every line and curve of his body.

Stiles turns to Peter, catches him looking. He smiles, and Peter knows that he would kill for this boy. He would die for this boy. He would haunt this boy and never let go.

*

Peter knows control.

When he crawls his way out his coma and slips out of Kate’s grasp, he knows that Beacon Hills is a place that he has to leave behind. The Hales have held the territory for generations. He doesn’t want to be the alpha to break the legacy. He doesn’t want to leave the place where all of the best memories of his pack were made. He doesn’t want to leave because there are people here, who conspired against his family and left them to burn. Peter wants his revenge, but it isn’t safe for him in Beacon Hills. He needs time to recover properly, away from his enemies.

Peter has control. He slinks away. He heals. He plans. He hunts.

Even when he tears into Kate, rips her into pieces and burns them all to ash, he does so with as much purpose as malice. Peter knows the lore, the bits of legend that might lead someone to a dangerous truth. He doesn’t want there to be anything left of Kate to bring back, so he burns her beyond all possibility of resurrection. Peter manages to avenge what he failed to protect.

It’s been a long time since Peter has had anyone to protect. It isn’t an instinct that has dulled with age. Peter knows control, but anyone who harms Stiles is fair game.

*

Peter’s busy with a stir-fry in the kitchen when Stiles comes home. Above the spices and herbs he’s been playing with, Peter smells the blood on the boy immediately. Peter switches off the stove and rushes to the entry hall.

“What happened?” Peter demands. Stiles has a split lip. Peter’s wolf is snarling, and Peter has to fight to keep the red from bleeding into his eyes.

“Some jerk at the library, spitting obscenities at his ghost. Pissed me off. He didn’t like the comments I made about him or, you know, that I was talking to him at all,” says Stiles.

“So he took a swing at you?”

“He was around my age. You know, one of the Pampered. We don’t play well with others. Comes from being spoiled and isolated.”

“That’s no excuse,” Peter snarls.

“Just let it go, Peter,” says Stiles tiredly. “I’ve had worse.”

“It’s a split lip,” says Talia. She throws Peter a quelling look. “He’s fine.”

Peter shoots Talia a disbelieving glance, but forces his anger back just the same.

“You said you’d be careful,” he admonishes Stiles.

“I am. I just– I can’t stand it. The way some people treat their ghosts. Like they don’t deserve any sort of kindness. Like all they exist for is to torment the living. That’s not true! My ghosts – they aren’t like that at all. They look out for me, give me advice, joke around with me. You know what I mean. I’ve seen the way you talk to yours, especially Laura. You get this look on your face. All fondly exasperated. You know, you’re doing it right now.”

“I’m fondly exasperated, Stiles,” Peter replies.

“Well, you had your murder eyes on earlier,” says Stiles. “I swear, it’s like they flash red sometimes.”

“Only when I’m very upset.” Peter pointedly ignores Talia’s intake of breath.

“Yeah, actually,” says Stiles. “You aren’t secretly a demon looking to steal my soul, are you?”

“No, Stiles, I’m no demon. And if I were, your soul would be mine for a home-cooked meal.”

“Yeah, not even gonna refute that.”

Peter slings an arm around Stiles’ shoulder and guides him to the kitchen. If he breathes deeply and happens to catch a foreign scent clinging to the boy, well, there’s nothing wrong with committing it to memory. He’s just being cautious. 

Talia gives him a worried look, but doesn’t follow them into the kitchen.

*

By the time Peter is fully healed from the fire, Kate Argent has gone to ground.

Kate may be nowhere to be found, but Chris Argent is a walking target. The man is a wreck. His wife has just died in childbirth and he has no idea how to care for an infant daughter alone. Chris has the same dark blonde hair as his sister, but his daughter’s head is covered in a layer of brown fuzz. She’s a fussy baby, and Peter watches as Chris rocks her, sings to her, cries over her. Peter observes them for days, with Chris none the wiser. There is no wolfsbane in the house. No mountain ash. It will be easy to take this sleep-deprived, heartbroken former hunter and either pull his sister’s location from him or use him and his brat as bait.

But Chris Argent, struggling to care for his daughter, had no part in the death of Peter’s family.

Peter thinks of the legacy left in Beacon Hills. Generations of Hale alphas have guided and protected the supernatural. They have served justice and sought peace. Peter wants his revenge. It’s a relentless burn inside of him, a pulsing wound that aches when all other wounds have healed.

Peter wants his revenge, but the fire has not reduced Peter to the dog that the hunters believe him to be. The fire has not wiped away Peter’s sense of family pride. Peter is the last of the Hales, and possibly the last Alpha Hale. He wants to be worthy of the name.

There are other ways to draw out Kate.

*

Peter thinks he might be capable of letting things lie. Stiles asked Peter to let it go, and Peter is inclined to give Stiles anything he wants. His wolf is outraged by his inaction, but Peter knows that, logically, the fool at the library is not a true threat to Stiles.

They have an ordinary evening. Peter salvages his abandoned stir-fry and Stiles digs in happily. Peter tells Stiles about the latest draft that he received from Murakami. Stiles tells Peter about his search through recent local news articles at the library, hunting for traces of Ashwood. The two of them retire to the living room after dinner, where they settle in to read. They’re leaning against opposite arms of the couch, but their feet are tangled together in the middle. Derek perches himself on the arm behind Stiles, reading along with the boy. It’s peaceful and comfortable, and it goes a long way toward soothing Peter’s wolf. When they turn in for the night, the wolf is quiet if not satisfied.

Then Peter wakes to a miserable whine from the end of his bed.

“Cora,” he says, instantly alert. It’s been over a week since Cora has had a bad night. He moves to her side, coming as close as possible without touching her. She sniffs and gazes up at him with wide eyes.

“Uncle Peter,” she whispers, “Someone’s hurt Stiles.”

Peter stiffens, and opens himself to his senses. There are no foreign scents in the house. Stiles’ heartbeat is calm and his breathing has the slow, steady rhythm of sleep. Cora is talking about Stiles’ earlier injury.

“He’s fine, Cora. Just a small misunderstanding.”

“Uncle Peter, someone hurt Stiles,” Cora insists, and there are tears in her eyes. “He’s just a human. We have to protect him.”

Cora is a child. She doesn’t really understand the situation. All she knows is that someone bad hurt someone good, and she wants Peter to get rid of that someone bad. Peter is a man capable of reason, but he’s also a wolf. There is an enemy out there who has laid a hand on a member of his pack – and Stiles is pack, even if he has no concept of what that means. This enemy has made another pack member cry. There is an enemy out there who has marked himself as prey, and Peter has his scent.

*

Peter has always had a talent for tracking. He can catch a scent and, once encountered, remember it even years later. It’s how he knew what Kate did to Derek, even before Kate began to gloat or Derek’s ghost came back to tell him. He recognized the scent in his hospital room as the scent of Derek’s mysterious new girlfriend. It’s how he found Kate in the end.

Peter is an alpha now, but he was raised to be the pack enforcer. He’s been trained from birth to remove any and all threats.

*

“Are we hunting, Uncle Peter?”

Laura appears at his side as he’s locking the front door behind him. Stiles remains asleep on the couch, unaware of Peter’s nighttime excursion.

“Stiles was hurt today,” says Peter. “We’re hunting the one responsible.”

“Good,” says Laura, baring her teeth.

Peter follows Stiles’ scent out of the small streets into the city proper. It leads him to a library on the east side, not far from Peter’s workplace.

Peter comes to a halt at the front entrance, sniffing carefully for traces of Stiles’ attacker. The library is closed at this hour, but Laura walks right through the double doors. She reappears a moment later.

“Side door – this way,” she says. Peter follows her to into the alley between the library and the neighbouring building. The space is narrow, the air thick with Stiles’ and the attacker’s scents. 

“Can you smell it?” Peter asks Laura.

“This exit must not be used very often. The only people I can smell are Stiles and someone I don’t recognize. Kind of fruity, but sour. ”

“That’s the one we’re hunting,” says Peter. Now that they both have the new scent, they set off on the trail. They don’t have far to go, only a couple of blocks south. They end up somewhere unexpected.

“The hospital?” Laura whispers. She turns to Peter. “How should we play this?”

Just standing outside the hospital is drawing Peter back into memories, flooding his brain with a sense of danger. His skin is crawling.

“Let’s assume that Stiles fought back, and his opponent came to the hospital afterward. He can’t have been hurt too badly. He walked all the way here. Probably just isn’t used to physical confrontation and came here to get checked out after the fight – in which case, it’s unlikely that he’s still here.”

“Or it’s someone who works here,” Laura counters.

Peter nods in acknowledgment. There’s sweat beading on his brow. He takes a deep breath. “Visiting hours are over. I can’t exactly walk in there.”

Laura is looking at Peter intently, twisting her hands subconsciously. Peter waits for her to comment on his distress, but instead she says, “I’ll take a look inside the hospital. Circle the perimeter, see if you can find a trail leading away from here.” She disappears into the building.

Checking the perimeter provides a momentary distraction, but Peter finds no trace of the attacker’s scent leaving the hospital. He settles in the shadows at the edge of the building to wait for Laura. The minutes pass slowly in her absence. Peter’s limbs feel weighted. There’s laughter ringing in his ears. He can’t move. He can’t see. 

“Uncle Peter. Uncle Peter!”

Peter comes to, and finds Laura kneeling in front of him. At some point he’s sunk into a crouch on the ground, arms wrapped around his legs. He staggers to his feet.

“Well?”

Laura gives him a considering look before reporting, “He’s still there. It’s a kid around Stiles’ age. He has a broken rib and a concussion.”

Laura delivers the news with confusion in her tone, but Peter finds that he is unsurprised. He thinks of John the Sheriff and Claudia the delinquent. Between the two, it’s unlikely that Stiles grew up without learning how to defend himself. But this begs the question of why Stiles didn’t just tell Peter that he won the fight.

“Well, it seems that Stiles wasn’t exaggerating when he said he could take care of himself,” says Peter.

“You think?” Laura replies.

They make their way home in contemplative silence.

*

Talia is in one of her moods.

She disapproves of Peter’s decision to go after the kid who attacked Stiles, also the fact that he brought Laura with him. It doesn’t matter to her that Peter didn’t actually touch the kid.

Talia’s staring at him with eyes that tell Peter that she misses Michael, that things would be better if the man were around, and that she blames Peter for her husband’s absence. It’s more unsettling than usual. Talia has been content for the last week or so. Peter grew used to the change.

“What are you thinking about?” asks Stiles. He’s pushing the same baby carrot back and forth on his plate, likely affected by Peter’s mood in the same way that Peter is affected by Talia’s.

“My brother-in-law,” says Peter mechanically. “I suppose I haven’t been the best company tonight, have I? How was your day, Stiles?”

He offers Stiles a perfunctory smile. The boy’s eyes narrow and he sets his fork down.

“Hey,” says Stiles. “Hey, don’t do that.” Stiles’ eyes flit to the side for a moment before he continues. “It isn’t our choice, whose ghost haunts us and whose ghost doesn’t. You feeling guilty about your brother-in-law’s absence? Screw that. It isn’t your fault.”

“You don’t have to spin any lies to spare my feelings,” says Peter. “I know how ghosts work. They come to the ones they’re closest to, and they’re gone once there’s no one that they loved left. My family – Michael’s family – is dead. I’m the only one left, and he isn’t here.”

“Are you sure there’s no one else that Michael could be haunting?”

Peter’s eyes go to Talia. Her arms are folded against her chest, her brow furrowed.

“Michael’s family died shortly before his marriage to Talia,” says Peter slowly, filtering out the supernatural details from his story. “It’s the same accident that killed my parents. There’s no one else for him to haunt.”

“That isn’t quite true,” says Talia. Peter has to strain his ears to hear her. “Michael had one pack member who survived. He gave up his alpha power to save him.”

Peter stares at Talia. As far he knew, Michael lost his alpha status because he died that day, and had to be resuscitated. He can’t ask Talia about this now, because Stiles is in the room, but he and Talia will be having words. Peter’s wolf is growling in frustration.

“I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but your family has shit luck,” says Stiles.

“Again, there’s no need to spin lies,” says Peter. He smiles ruefully at Stiles. “Talia says there might be someone else that Michael is haunting. A relative of sorts.”

Peter must still look disheartened because Stiles continues.

“You know, just because Michael isn’t haunting you doesn’t mean he loves you less than whoever else is left,” says Stiles.

“What makes you say that?” asks Peter dubiously.

“Because Allison’s haunting me.” Stiles shoots a sad smile at an empty corner of the kitchen. “Don’t get me wrong. She’s my best friend, next to Scott. But she was really close to her dad. Her mom died in childbirth – I know, that’s like everyone’s story for my generation – but, well, her dad went kind of nuts with the whole no-connections thing. They moved a lot while she was growing up, and he was the only real constant in her life. Allison really loves him. I just think she wanted to be with Scott more than she wanted to be with her father, and Scott was always going to haunt me. So if Allison could choose me to be with Scott, maybe Michael’s choice doesn’t really have anything to do with you.”

“But even if Michael didn’t want to choose me, why wouldn’t he choose to be with Talia?” Peter pointedly avoids looking in Talia's direction.

“Maybe that someone else needed him more,” says Stiles.

Peter nods, and stares contemplatively at Stiles. The boy has turned back to his plate, seeming content to allow Peter his silent scrutiny. “You made a lot of connections for someone born after the cut-off. Do you ever regret it?”

“No,” Stiles says immediately. “Although, people have been trying to make me regret it for as long as I can remember. The whole town used to hate how close Scott and I were. People used to break convention just to glare at us on the street. The kids at school would bully us, try to push us apart. And the teachers would make us sit on opposite sides of the classroom. 

“When my mom got sick, they started gossiping about how it would knock some sense into my dad, that he’d cut me off from Scott, finally. Then when she died, and he didn’t try to isolate me, they forced him to resign based on some bullshit excuse.”

Stiles turns to stare at the space beside him, and smiles.

“Yeah, Dad. I know. Not my fault.” Stiles laughs. “Love you, too.”

“Was your mother your first ghost, then?”

Stiles frowns. “Well, she was Dad’s ghost first.” He pauses, as if unsure about whether he wants to continue or not. “I got my parents together, I think. I mean, after Dad- they were just both there when I woke up.”

“I’ve only ever seen one of my ghosts at a time,” says Peter.

“Yeah,” says Stiles. “That seems to be how it works for most people. Mine like to show up all together, like it’s a party or something. Sometimes they’ll have whole conversations without me. Usually about me, and how stupid I’m being at the time.” Stiles rolls his eyes. “What about you? Who was your first?”

“Derek,” says Peter. “I thought I was hallucinating. He doesn’t speak much, and that first time he just stared at me.”

“Staring isn’t the worst thing a ghost has ever done. Melissa’s ex-husband was a nightmare. Such a douche. Like, okay, he freaked out when he found out Melissa was pregnant, ran off and got himself killed in the riots around the time of the cut-off. He came back to Melissa as a ghost just to beg for her forgiveness. Never wanted to shut up.”

“And this is why people shy away from connections now. Because when the dead come back, there’s no getting rid of them.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Stiles asks. “When it’s the people we love?”

“There are a lot of people who think that ghosts are only shades,” says Peter. “Reflections of the people we loved, with their worst traits magnified.”

“That’s not true,” Stiles counters. “It’s the parts of them we remember, our impressions of them, really, that get out of proportion.” Stiles frowns at the space to his right. “You know, Lydia has this theory, that if our ghosts could meet other people – people who don’t have any previous impression of them – they’d behave a lot more like they actually would, if they were alive.”

“An interesting theory, but there’s no way to test it.” 

Stiles shrugs. Their eyes meet. Peter waits, sees the hesitation in the amber of Stiles' eyes.

“You know,” says Stiles, eyes dropping to his plate. “Allison agrees with you about wolf pups.”

Peter allows the change of subject.

*

Peter confronts Talia the moment they’re alone in his room.

“Seems you’ve been keeping secrets,” Peter prompts.

“Does this really matter? We’re all dead now, Peter. Can you let this go?” Peter stands in front of his closed bedroom door – not that blocking the door can stop Talia from leaving if she really wants.

“Dead, but not gone,” says Peter. “And supposedly not all dead?”

Talia begins to pace as she explains.

“Look, you know how much of a mess things were back then. Some things slipped through the cracks.”

“You told me that Michael died that day. That his heart stopped beating and you had to resuscitate him. That when he came back he was no longer an alpha.”

“That did happen,” says Talia. “It just happened because he sacrificed his alpha power to heal one of his betas. It’s something you can do, as an alpha, but it’s risky. His body couldn’t handle his own wounds afterward, and his heart stopped for a moment.”

*Why would you hide this from me?” Peter wants to tear at his own hair in frustration.

“You know how much of a mess Michael’s former pack was. It wasn’t like our pack. None of them were born wolves. They were all bitten without consent. Michael became alpha when he killed the madman who started the pack–“

“And put off marrying you for the better half of a decade trying to get his act together and be an alpha worthy of the Alpha-Hale-to-be. I know. Tell me what I don’t know.”

“The beta that Michael saved wanted Michael dead. He blamed Michael for the infighting and the territory dispute with the Carver pack.”

“So he was an ungrateful idiot. Surely nothing you couldn’t handle.”

“Michael didn’t want to kill him. So I took his memories and sent the omega on his way.”

Peter stares at his sister, waiting for the explanation of why she would keep this a secret from him. Talia sighs.

“Michael knew exactly what you would have done if we had told you about this. You would have hunted down that omega and eliminated the threat.”

“Yes,” says Peter. “And it would have been the right choice. What chance did he have as an omega, anyway?”

“He found a wife, actually,” says Talia. “The last I heard they were trying for a baby.”

“Of course they were. Aren’t we lucky that he survived to form a new pack to come after us? Though I suppose it doesn’t matter now that Michael’s dead anyways.”

“Peter.”

“What’s the omega’s name?” He rolls his eyes at the expression on his sister’s face. “I’m not going to go out and kill him. I just want to be aware of what kind of threat might still be out there. I’m not dead yet, and I have Stiles to think about.”

“Yes. Stiles. The boy you were ready to kill someone for over a split lip.” Talia sighs. “You weren’t meant to be an alpha, Peter. You were always meant to be an enforcer. You were raised to strike, and I was raised to judge. There’s a violence inside of you. It’s dangerous to have in any alpha, let alone Alpha Hale.”

Peter stares back at his sister. She has finally ceased her pacing and he can read the guilt and concern in her eyes.

“I’m not the alpha you were, or the alpha that our mother was, but I am Alpha Hale now. I want a name. I won’t kill the wolf without proper provocation. Just give me a name.”

Talia gives him what he wants and Peter pulls out his laptop. It isn’t hard to track down Michael’s old pack member. He moved one town over, got married, had a son, and promptly died in a car crash. The incident report reads like a sloppy hunter cover-up. The son was the sole survivor of the crash. As a member of the Pampered generation, he was instantly adopted by a wealthy couple. 

“I thought maybe Michael was haunting his former beta,” says Talia. “But the son would make even more sense.”

“If you’ve suspected this entire time that Michael had someone else to haunt, why have you been giving me the guilt treatment?”

“I resented the thought that Michael would care more for his former beta than he would for you. You were brothers. You should have been closer than that,” says Talia. “But given what Stiles said, about a ghost being able to choose, I think Michael is exactly the kind of man who would want to watch over his former beta’s orphan son.” 

“You’re a ghost, Talia. Shouldn’t you have already known that?”

“I’m not all-knowing just because I’m dead,” says Talia. She looks back at Peter’s laptop. “Where is the boy now?” 

Peter sighs, and digs a little further. The wealthy couple – the Whittemores – were from out of town and changed the boy’s name completely, likely saving him from further harm from hunters. Peter tracks down the boy’s current whereabouts and sighs.

“Of course you ended up in Beacon Hills.”

Everything seems to lead back to that town these days.

*

When Kate and all her conspirators are dead, Peter finds himself in the ruins of the Hale house. If leaving Beacon Hills was painful for him before, the thought of staying leaves him terrified. It’s so empty here, in this house, in these woods without any comforting scents or heartbeats around him.

Every now and then, he thinks he catches glimpses of his family. It started with Derek, the night he killed Kate. Derek watched silently as Peter burned every piece of her. Now he can feel Talia’s eyes on him, hear Cora’s pitiful cries, and sense Laura darting through the shadows in the corner of his eye. The Hale House is a haunted place for Peter. He cannot stay here, but he cannot make himself leave.

It’s Laura, who appears to him one night and cures him of his paralysis.

“You don’t have to stay here, Uncle Peter,” she tells him softly. “We just want you to be happy.”

Peter has a safe house in Massachusetts, an investment from years before that he nearly forgot. He moves away from Beacon Hills and the burnt out shell of his former home. The ghosts follow.

Peter learns that everyone has ghosts.

*

There are two components to Stiles’ crime board. The first is a map of the town, with various locations crossed off with an x. The locations vary, from motel to gas station to corner store. This map fills up with more marks each day. Peter tries not to think about how the marks are slowly reaching towards the edges of town and beyond.

The second component is a giant map of the United States attached to a corkboard. Various notes are pinned across it. There’s a string connecting a majority of these points to mark Stiles’ journey across the country, from West Coast to East. It isn’t a straight shot by any means. The trail meanders north and south. It even doubles back at several points. 

Most of the notes are in Stiles’ handwriting, but there are two written by someone else. The first is pinned to Dallas and reads, “Stop following. Not safe.” It’s scrawled across a scrap of what might be hotel stationary. The second, a bit of napkin pinned to Philadelphia, reads, “It’s done.” 

Peter feels it’s safe to assume the notes are from Ashwood. He wonders if it was just before Dallas that Stiles got separated from the man. The pin before Dallas is in Austin, and there are three question marks on the scrap of paper pinned there. The only other city with a question mark is Beacon Hills, though the paper there also bears two x’s. There’s another x marking Tucson. The last x is in Philadelphia.

It’s been two weeks since Stiles walked into Peter’s life. Peter is at home while Stiles is out looking for leads. Peter has, for the most part, allowed Stiles to work on his crime board in peace. He isn’t eager for Stiles to pick up Ashwood’s trail again, so he’s refrained from offering any thoughts as to the man’s whereabouts. In truth, Peter hasn’t found any records of Colin Ashwood, though there’s a birth certificate and school records for Allison.

He might have let things lie, but according to Stiles’ map of town, the boy is running out of places to look before he moves on. Stiles seems comfortable in Peter’s den, but Stiles was with the Martins for six months, claims Lydia as the sister he never had, and still left to chase after Ashwood.

It doesn’t help that Talia’s revelation about Michael’s surviving pack member has Peter on edge. It was his job as pack enforcer to monitor threats, but if he missed Kate and he missed Michael’s former beta, what else slipped past him? What is he missing now?

Peter pulls out his laptop and begins a search in police records for incidents involving a man fitting Stiles’ description in Austin and Philadelphia. He sets the search parameters to include reports dated no later than six months previous and no earlier than about three years ago. Stiles said that he’s been playing catch up with Ashwood for three years, and he was in New York, a pin that comes after both Austin and Phildelphia, at least six months earlier.

“I thought you were happy being patient,” Laura comments.

“I am happy,” says Peter, because despite Talia’s interference, Stiles’ presence still leaves him happier than he’s been since before the fire. “I’d just like a little assurance that things will stay that way.”

The incident that Peter finds is a bar fight in Austin from two years ago – one Allister Lis against three much larger men. Allister, from his physical description, is obviously Stiles. The alias is not subtle. Allister is for Allison; Lis was Claudia’s maiden name. Allister was checked into hospital for his injuries, though he disappeared that same night. He had a broken arm and a concussion. The police report seems to conclude that he walked himself out.

Peter searches Austin’s records for any further mention of Allister Lis or his three assailants. He finds a report, dated a week after the bar fight, that says the three men were murdered, all of them shot in their hotel rooms by a sniper rifle. Allister Lis is wanted for questioning.

“Okay,” says Laura. “So, I wasn’t expecting that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


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